


That Time of the Semicentury

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pampering, Shedding, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Two Dudes Sitting No Feet Apart in the Hot Tub Because They're NOT Hereditary Enemies, hair petting, specifically shedding as a metaphor for having a period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: Crowley squints at him blearily. "And why, exactly, are you over?"Aziraphale lifts his arms to draw attention to the overstuffed reusable bags he's brought with him. "You said it's that time again and, well, I thought perhaps you might allow me to pamper you a bit."ORWhat if we low-key compared the experience of snake-demon shedding to having a period and let the hurt/comfort unfold accordingly?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 352





	That Time of the Semicentury

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollow-head (laideur)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/gifts).



> This is the brainchild of [hollow-head](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/hollow-head), who was looking to either write or find some shedding-as-a-metaphor-for-a-period hurt/comfort fic. When the idea would not give me peace, they were gracious enough to let me run with it and also helped with brainstorming and beta work. Thanks for being a fun fic buddy, and I hope this hits the spot!
> 
> Additional thanks go out to Juliana, who also helped out with beta work. :D

Aziraphale rings the snake-themed doorbell to Crowley's flat and fights to keep his expression on the right side of manic delight. He knows he shouldn't be this excited about what is objectively a very uncomfortable experience for his friend, but he just has so many plans. Still, he knows it would be the height of rudeness to beam at Crowley when he's feeling poorly, so when the door finally opens, he's wrestled his face into what he hopes passes for sympathetic commiseration.

Crowley looks wretched. His slouch looks more careworn than cavalier, and his slim, stylish clothes have been traded for black sweatpants and what appears to be two different hoodies. The pockets of the sweatpants bulge, as does the kangaroo pocket on the over-hoodie; when Crowley shifts his weight, Aziraphale hears sloshing and realizes they must be stuffed with hot water bottles. The inner hood has been pulled up, making Crowley's fully yellow eyes seem to glow in the slight shadow, and the squashed fringe his hair hangs limply over his forehead.

"What's wrong with your face?" Crowley asks, sullen.

Now that he's seen how miserable Crowley looks, Aziraphale finds it much easier to reign in his enthusiasm and school his expression into a more believable moue of concern.

"Apologies, my dear. I got a little overexcited on my way over."

Crowley squints at him blearily. "And why, exactly, are you over?"

Aziraphale lifts his arms to draw attention to the overstuffed reusable bags he's brought with him. "You said it's that time again and, well, I thought perhaps you might allow me to pamper you a bit."

Crowley's alarmed regard of the bags transforms instantly into a sneer. "Pamper?" he spits. "I'm a demon. I do not need pampering."

"Perhaps not," Aziraphale agrees, "but I thought you might enjoy it anyway."

"You think I don't know how to take care of myself?" Crowley demands, clearly working himself into a proper dudgeon. "I've been dealing with this just fine on my own for over six thousand years. I don't need you condescending me, or pitying me, or whatever this is." He untucks a hand from the depths of the kangaroo pocket and makes a dismissive gesture at the bags.

Aziraphale pouts. He had expected something like this. Between the research he'd done about the closest approximate analogs, and just knowing Crowley as he did, he hadn't truly expected to be welcomed with open arms. It's why when Crowley had turned down his invitation for dinner and advised him, "Look, I'm going to be busy for a few days. Nothing serious, just… you know, that time of the semi-century. I'll call you." Aziraphale had decided to just show up instead of offering to come over. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, in this case.

"Oh, well… I had been looking forward to being able to treat you. You are always doing such lovely things for me. And truthfully, I've been wanting to help out during this time for, oh, at least a few millennia, but of course we were adversaries and you did seem like you preferred your privacy, so I never pressed."

Crowley gives a patronizing "mm-hmm" and opens his mouth—likely to tell Aziraphale to bugger off—so Aziraphale deploys his entire arsenal at once:

"But, Crowley, dearest," he says, going full doe-eyes, "things are different now, are they not? Now that we're on our side? And so, I was very much hoping… well, do you think you could find it in you to indulge me?"

Crowley's expression melts from annoyed to aggrieved. He groans low in his throat. Aziraphale turns the beseeching scrunch of his eyebrows up a notch and lets his lower lip develop the barest of quivers.

Finally, Crowley closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest. He doesn't say yes, but he does push the door open marginally wider before turning on his heel and shuffling further into the gloomy recesses of the flat. There's a bulge to the back of the hood that isn't pulled up that suggests yet another hot water bottle bouncing against his upper back.

Aziraphale gives a satisfied wriggle and hastens inside.

.

.

.

Crowley slumps back onto his living room sofa—miracled eighty percent squashier from the moment he'd felt the first itch in his skin—and tries not to resent his best friend's obvious desire to dote on him. He can hear Aziraphale fluttering around the flat, unloading some of his bags in the kitchen before heading to Crowley's bedroom and en suite. The ridiculous bastard is humming something bouncy and bright under his breath—probably Haydn—which is just rude. Crowley is _dying_ over here, thanks, and he could do without the upbeat musical score.

He draws his limbs up and curls around the humid warmth of the hot water bottles stashed around his corporation. His skin itches, and his limbs ache, and his vision is blurred, and layered over the top of it all is a persistent, core-deep exhaustion that makes even the thought of voicing his petulance seem like too much effort.

On the television, the Golden Girls are paused mid-tableau reacting to something Sophia's said, looking to his fuzzy vision like a doily version of a Renaissance painting. He fishes the remote control from the crease in the sofa cushions and viciously thumbs "play."

Aziraphale materializes a short time later and fusses over setting up a pot of tea on the side table.

"Should I bring out any nibbles? Or is that best saved for after?" he asks, pouring a generous amount of what smells like peppermint tea into twin winged mugs, one white and one black.

Crowley's entire abdomen clenches angrily at the thought of food. "After," he mumbles and melts further into the embrace of the sofa cushions.

Aziraphale hums knowingly and crosses to the couch with the mugs in either hand.

"I suspected as much. Here, try sipping on this."

Crowley stares dully at the mug for a long moment before finding the wherewithal to bring his hands up to take it. He ventures a cautious sip—of course Aziraphale made sure it would be the perfect temperature—and then cradles it to his chest, letting the sharply scented steam wake him up a little.

"What are we watching?" Aziraphale asks politely, sitting close but not imposing.

"Golden Girls. S'American, but pretty good. You're Rose."

Aziraphale tsks. "Surely I'm Dorothy."

Crowley whips his head around to stare at the angel, then winces as the incautious move stretches his skin uncomfortably.

"You are not," he insists, shoving down the urge to demand when Aziraphale watched the show. He recognizes the bastardly glint in the angel's eye, and he will not give him the satisfaction. " _I'm_ Dorothy."

Aziraphale scoffs. "Sophia, maybe. Although, I can't truly see you in any character. You're much too _you_ to be so reduced."

"Ngk."

"How are you feeling, dear?" Aziraphale asks, softly—going in for the kill, Crowley assumes dourly, now that he'd done his best to fluster him.

"Fine," he grits out as he turns his face back to the steam of his tea.

"Mm, I'm sure," Aziraphale says, making no effort to mask his skepticism. Crowley slants him a vicious glance for it. "How long until the main event?"

"Dunno. A while."

"And what do you normally do while you're waiting? How do you keep yourself comfortable?"

He shrugs carefully. "This, mostly. Eventually, I'll move over to a hot bath. Soaking helps with the getting ready. Then I'll need to change forms—s'easier that way—and after I usually have a bite of something and nap."

"Well, I would love nothing more than to help in whatever way I can through every stage," Aziraphale says, voice altogether too eager to be tolerated.

"Quiet is good," Crowley says repressively.

"Of course," Aziraphale murmurs. Then fidgets. And fidgets some more.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "What?"

"It's only, I wished to ask you… since you're feeling poorly and cold… would you like a little snuggle? I've been told I give _very_ good snuggles."

Crowley feels like he's having an out-of-body experience. There are so many issues with what the angel just said, he's completely stymied. Questions clamor at him: Since when does Aziraphale give snuggles? And the word "snuggles"—really? When has the angel gotten comfortable with any level of direct physical contact, anyway? Crowley's been living off the rationed highs of the brief hand touches he's been averaging about once a decade, and here Aziraphale is offering full-on snuggles? _Who_ told him he gives "very good snuggles," and _are they yet living_?

"Ssssnuggles?" he wheezes around the pileup in his throat.

"Oh, do try to set aside your infernal need to be cool," Aziraphale advises, already wriggling a little closer on the sofa. "Consider me an ethereal basking rock, if it helps."

He thinks, if given enough time to stew, he could find all kinds of reasons to turn the offer down. As it is, his "cold bad, soft-warm good" instincts beat his propensity for self-sabotage in the race to control his neck muscles, and he finds himself nodding.

This is enough for Aziraphale, who beams and swoops in with a murmured, "jolly good."

Aziraphale wraps an enthusiastic arm around Crowley's shoulders and pulls him in close until they're sitting hip-to-hip. Crowley's stalled-out higher reasoning centers are still struggling to catch up to events, so when the move jostles his drawn-up legs, he doesn't think to fight their slow collapse sideways. Aziraphale makes a delighted noise and scoops Crowley's legs over his own. With some additional gentle wriggling and adjusting on the angel's part, Crowley suddenly, somehow, finds himself with his cheek pressed into the angel's shoulder.

"There, is that comfortable?" Aziraphale asks.

"Wha—?" Crowley ekes out before dissolving into a wordless groan of appreciative relief as the first wave of warmth starts to seep in. He vainly tries to reconcile what's just happened with everything he thought he understood about the boundaries in their relationship, but his exhaustion-muddled mind is being in no way helped by his treacherous corporation, which is currently turning into goo from how blessedly warm the angel is.

"What did you do to your corporation?" he mumbles, fighting against the urge to rub his whole face into the warm, velvety nap of the Aziraphale's waistcoat.

"I thought you might like it warmer, so I turned up the thermostat a bit," Aziraphale says, smug as anything.

"You gave yourself a fever?" Crowley asks, incredulous. His arms, only slightly against his will, are uncurling from their defensive hunch to snake around Aziraphale's waist.

"A fever would imply discomfort," Aziraphale counters. "I am quite comfortable, I assure you. You're _warming up_ to the idea too, I see," he says with too much glee.

Crowley groans again, this time in unambiguous protest, but quickly subsides. Even though he is vastly more relaxed now that he's being thoroughly soaked through with angelic heat, he's still itchy and exhausted and generally feeling like the personification of the word "blergh."

Aziraphale hesitates and then hovers his hand over Crowley's shin. "I read that gentle massage can help with itching when the skin is too sensitive to scratch. I could…?"

Crowley stares at the angel's plump fingers, poised and waiting for his go-ahead. He has a brief, halfhearted inner debate about gift horses and mouths when horses are treacherous tools of Below before he decides he probably shouldn't be arguing himself out of something that sounds really fucking delightful.

"Knock yourself out," he grumbles.

Aziraphale gives a gentle squeeze to his shin, holding for a moment to let the heat of his palm soak in, before moving a few inches up and repeating the process. He starts on Crowley's neck and shoulders with his other hand.

"Do let me know if there's a particular spot I should focus on."

Crowley, nearly going cross-eyed with the overwhelming relief of having his itches tenderly bullied away, can only manage an acknowledging grunt.

He's feeling almost drunk with the overwhelming influx of warmth and softness and indelible angel scent. Like he's just been gently thwacked in the face by a fresh slice of angel food cake. Or lovingly throttled by the concept of a pile of kittens. Nothing is making sense, and he feels vaguely put upon about that, but he can't deny that in a matter of minutes Aziraphale has managed to pull the rug out from under his vague misery and replaced it with something as close to comfort as he's ever been able to achieve during this time.

"It is helping, isn't it?" Aziraphale asks quietly after a long moment.

Crowley gives in and nuzzles his cheek to Aziraphale's chest with a sigh. "Yeah, angel."

They stay like that for a long while, Crowley basking, Aziraphale gently massaging, and the Golden Girls getting up to their hijinks in the background. Crowley isn't paying attention, just drifting on the unbelievable sensation of snuggling with Aziraphale, but he cracks open an eye when Aziraphale makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. On the television screen, Blanche is looking overcome and holding a plant mister.

"You have one of those in your plant room, don't you?" Aziraphale murmurs. "Should I fetch it and spritz you down? I understand proper humidity is important during this time."

Crowley snorts and holds back a grin. "Fuck off. And enough Golden Girls. You're sassy enough as it is. Don't need to give you more inspiration."

They compromise on early-twentieth-century romantic comedies. Half a day later, Crowley has also lost the last vestiges of his inhibitions. If the angel has decided snuggling is on the menu for their relationship now that they're out from under the thumbs of their respective head offices, who is Crowley to complain? Especially when it means he can now, without reservation, wedge himself behind Aziraphale on the sofa and cling to him like an infernal knapsack.

"Pet leopard," he muses, squinting at the tv. "Could do with one of those. Train it to keep the plants in line." His eyesight is beginning to clear up, which means it's almost time to move on to the next stage. But he's loath to give up his spot draped bodily over the delicious warm softness of his angel. He rubs his chin absently over feathery curls and sighs.

"Absolutely not," Aziraphale harrumphs and holds up a glass high enough for Crowley to sip from the straw. "A creature like that needs exercise, _enrichment_. Otherwise, you'll find yourself becoming a chew toy."

"'Enrichment,'" Crowley mocks between sips of lemon-infused water. Aziraphale has been ruthless about hydration, but there was only so much hot leaf juice Crowley could stomach before he started getting tetchy, so a compromise was reached three movies in. "A leopard expert now, are you?"

"I had an enlightening conversation with a zookeeper during my last constitutional through the London Zoo."

"They keep many leopards at the ZSL?"

"No, but they have a tiger. And lions."

"And what were you really there to see?"

"… The slow loris. I find them restful."

Gosh, he loves this soft idiot. In his exhausted state, some of that leaks out in a full-body squeeze. Aziraphale gives a faint squeak at the treatment, but he simply pats Crowley's thigh in return.

"How are things progressing, my dear?" he asks once the movie is over.

Crowley groans and slumps, letting his chin slither down to the angel's shoulder and the dislodged arm around his waist.

"Should probably go start a soak. Won't be too long after that."

"Would you like me to draw you a bath? I brought some oils I think might be nice."

He could draw his own bath with nice oils, but his limbs are feeling heavy and awkward, so he would really rather not. If the angel is offering…

"Yeah, sure. Just… give me a sec. I'll get up." He girds himself against having to detach himself from his soft space heater to face the long, slow, cold walk across his brutalist, cement flat to get to the bathroom. Visions of fleece-padded Segways flit through his mind, if only he had the energy to muster up the miracle.

Aziraphale tuts. "No need, dearest, I can manage. Just keep your grip." He grasps his hands under Crowley's thighs and stands, hoisting Crowley with him as though he really is no more trouble than a knapsack.

Crowley clings reflexively, then buries his flush in Aziraphale's shoulder with a half-hearted grumble as the angel carries him through to the bath. He shouldn't find the gesture so affecting, but between the angelic strength and answering of his unvoiced desire, he's having a bit of a moment.

He gets deposited unceremoniously on the counter by the sink, and he watches as Aziraphale bustles about drawing the water and asking his opinions on oil scents.

"Not too high," he says. When Aziraphale gives him a puzzled look, he flops a hand in the direction of the taps. "I usually fall asleep during this part. Prefer not to accidentally drown."

"Oh, good lord," Aziraphale says, looking from the bath back to Crowley in alarm. "Well, I was going to offer to help with your hair—a good hair wash is the height of luxury—but perhaps I should just get in with you."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says flatly.

The angel looks to him with a politely inquiring lift to his eyebrows. Crowley gives him his best deadpan in return. Aziraphale rolls his eyes once and counters with a reproving moue of his lips. Crowley holds his arms out wide and shakes his head in disbelief. Aziraphale, in what Crowley considers an egregious escalation, heaves a soft sigh and draws his eyebrows up in devastating entreaty.

"Ugh, _fine_ ," Crowley relents.

"Oh, it will be just like in Rome—remember?" Aziraphale enthuses and starts working on the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Those baths were considerably bigger, angel," Crowley gripes and eases gingerly off the counter. His skin has moved past itchy and into tight and sensitive territory, like an all-over sunburn without the actual burn. The warm water and the sweet-smelling oils swirling on the surface are calling him like the best sort of temptation. If the angel is that eager to get in with him, he isn't going to say no. It would honestly be fantastic to lean against a warm, plush chest instead of cold, hard marble. And by this point, he's ready to write off any consequences of this rapid escalation in their relationship for future Crowley to deal with.

"Oh, like people weren't getting up to all sorts of things in there, even with all the room in the world," he scoffs and then pauses halfway through folding up his shirt. "Of course, I don't mean to suggest—"

"I know, I know," Crowley says, waving him off and shambling over to the edge of the tub. "I assume neither of us has formed new opinions on the subject?" To make his point, he wriggles out of his sweatshirts and sweatpants all in one go and lets his Effortless state speak for him.

"Quite," Aziraphale says, sounding so relieved Crowley is forced to pull a face at him based on principle alone. The angel gives him his best unimpressed look. "You beguiling creature, you," he says, dry as his tax returns.

They settle in, Aziraphale leaning against the back of the tub and Crowley sprawled back against him, head resting in the crook of his shoulder. The water is miraculously perfect, warm and fragrant and soft with the oils. He's barely wriggled into a comfortable position against Aziraphale's chest before he feels his skin start to unclench a bit. The sigh he lets out in relief brings the sting of what is most definitely not tears to the corners of his eyes, and he quickly closes them.

Aziraphale presses a wide, gentle palm over Crowley's forehead, anchoring him in place, and hums contentedly. Crowley feels it all through his back and fights not to shiver. There is an unprecedented amount of skin-to-skin contact going on, and he's doing his best to be cool about it. The persistent nag of discomfort across literally every inch of his skin and the general exhaustion is doing him a favor, in that regard.

"This is lovely," Aziraphale sighs as he manifests a shallow, polished wooden bowl, dips it into the water, and pours warm water over Crowley's clavicles.

Crowley manages a vaguely inquisitive gurgling sound in the back of his throat and concentrates on resisting the urge to turn his face into the side of the angel's neck and not come back up for a few centuries.

"Yes," Aziraphale confirms and then works on carefully pouring water over Crowley's hair without letting it run down his face. "We should…" he starts gamely and then peters off until Crowley's hair is properly soaked.

With a deep breath, he tries again: "We should do this again. Sometime. Under more… usual circumstances."

Crowley opens his eyes at that, just to confirm he really is in his bathroom and hasn't slipped into a stress-induced hallucination. But those are definitely his ferns hanging from the ceiling, including the little shit spider plant that's been skating on thin ice for the past week or two.

"Yeah?" he croaks. "This isn't just 'cause…?" It doesn't feel like pity. But it does feel like a lot, and very much faster than he'd ever have anticipated from the angel, so he'd already been mentally packing all of these experiences into a box to be shelved until the _next_ time.

"Well, it was certainly a catalyst," Aziraphale admits. He's now busy pouring a bit of oil into his palm. "Or, I suppose you could call it an excuse, really. I've wanted to say something, now that things are _different_ ," he says with vaudeville levels of emphasis, "but I wasn't sure how to bring it up."

"Dithering?" Crowley guesses, and then hisses in surprised pleasure when Aziraphale begins dragging oiled fingertips through his wet hair, gently massaging the skin as he methodically works from root to tip.

"I didn't see you making any suggestions," Aziraphale says mildly, as though he isn't doing obscene things to Crowley's scalp.

"Didn't want to go too fast," Crowley says, and is only a little mortified at how petulant it comes out.

"Ah," Aziraphale says quietly, and mercifully leaves it alone.

Sometime later, when Crowley's limbs are beginning to feel like overcooked noodles, and he's having trouble keeping his eyes open, Aziraphale encourages him to turn over. Crowley feels twelve kinds of pathetic as he flops around until he's chest-to-chest with the angel. He snakes his arms around the angel's plush waist on instinct and then burrows his face in Aziraphale's neck, since he's apparently allowed.

Aziraphale continues to pour water periodically over his exposed back and shoulders.

"I feel like you're basting me," Crowley mumbles, already halfway to sleep.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale murmurs back just before pouring a gentle stream of water over the back of Crowley's neck. "I'd have started with thyme and sage instead of chamomile and ylang ylang as the base flavours, if that was my aim."

He's feeling too relaxed, too relatively comfortable to fight the urge for another full-body squeeze of adoration. Aziraphale submits to it with another soft squeak and then turns and rubs the underside of his chin over the crown of Crowley's head.

It's that, Crowley thinks drowsily—the heady combination of new sweetness and familiar gentle bastardry and all without any shying away of what Crowley is and what's happening—that makes it easier to let himself melt into the changes. There's some lingering trepidation, but the angel is doing a fantastic job of making all of this feel like a quiet, inevitable evolution rather than a gigantic leap into the unknown.

"G'night, angel," he slurs.

"Good night, dearest," Aziraphale says, hushed, "and dream of whatever you like best."

Crowley dreams of gentle fingers carefully plaiting his slick hair into an elegant fishtail, tied off with a soft tartan ribbon.

.

.

.

A few hours pass with Crowley dead to the world, long enough for Aziraphale to miracle a book to hover before him. Even unconscious and snoring, Crowley maintains a faintly constrictor grip around Aziraphale's torso and legs. Aziraphale resists the urge to hug him back, unsure if the poor dear's skin will permit it at this stage. Instead, he contents himself with braiding Crowley's hair and keeping his neck and shoulders from drying out.

Even with the book, he finds his attention preoccupied with their discussion, and with breathing mindfully through the lingering nerves of revealing his wants so directly. Millennia of habits formed are difficult to break. He'd not truly thought Crowley would object to the direction he wants to take their relationship—the ridiculous darling is quite transparent—but there are only so many times you can have your ideas and desires coldly batted down by beings whose opinions you were literally made to trust and obey before you develop something of a nervous tic. He's surprised he was able to get through the conversation so coherently, and it had barely qualified as a proper conversation. There is still so much they've only said indirectly or left entirely unspoken, but… well, that mostly works for them, he thinks. And there's nothing that says they can't pick the threads back up later.

Crowley snorts awake hours later, pushing up clumsily and staring for a moment with patent horror at the puddle Aziraphale can feel cooling on his neck that he knows they're going to pretend is bathwater.

"Feeling a little better?" he asks, sending his book away with a wave of his hand and helping Crowley sit up properly in the miraculously warm water.

Crowley nods stiffly. His voice is croaky when he admits, "Need to go all slithery now."

The less said about the relative dignity of two adult-sized, man-shaped beings getting out of an oil-filled bath when one of them is less-than-coordinated and the other prone to hovering, the better. Soon, though, they're both out and in one piece.

Aziraphale miracles a fluffy bathrobe for himself. Crowley waves off the offer of a towel and instead drops immediately into his more streamlined shape.

"Oh!" Aziraphale says, now surrounded by many metres of black-and-red snake. "Shall I leave you to it, now? I'm not certain of the etiquette."

"You can sssstay," Crowley says. "Once I dry out some, it should start. The tile in here is good for helping things along."

Aziraphale kneels down in the center of the bathroom and folds himself into a tailor's seat. Crowley encircles him a few times before dramatically flopping his head into Aziraphale's lap.

Aziraphale gingerly places his hand on top of Crowley's head, careful not to jostle anything. He can see now as the scales dry that they're a little dull. It should hopefully be soon, then, and Crowley will be able to get some relief.

They don't talk through the next stretch. Crowley lies preternaturally still, snout poking at Aziraphale's soft belly, and Aziraphale stays sympathetically quiet. Then, feeling a stroke of inspiration, he snaps, and the quiet strains of Handel's "Water Music" fills the room.

"A nice distraction, I thought," he murmurs. "I can turn it off if you don't like it."

Crowley grunts softly, but it sounds more like acknowledgement than protest, so Aziraphale leaves it be.

Then, like a switch has been flicked, Crowley lifts his head abruptly and rears back.

"S'time," he hisses.

Without so much as a by your leave, he noses Aziraphale's robe open a little further and starts rubbing the edges of his mouth insistently against Aziraphale's knee.

"I beg your pardon," Aziraphale drawls. He finds being an infernal scratching post more charming than bizarre on balance—Lord help him—but it's the principle of the matter.

"Don't worry, angel, you're doing great," Crowley rasps, the cheeky bastard.

The edges of his skin start peeling back from his mouth, revealing scales bright and shiny as polished onyx with a hint of a rainbow sheen beneath.

"Grab the ends for me? This should just be a tick."

Aziraphale pinches awkwardly at the two flaps. Once he has a good grip, Crowley slithers and wriggles away, slipping out of the old skin with no more trouble than a fish swimming along a friendly current. Within less than a minute, Crowley is free, leaving a ghost of himself behind. It's almost miraculously perfect.

He bounces back to his feet in human form in the next moment, bright-eyed and with an almost manic grin stretching his mouth wide.

"Thanks, angel!" he says. He shifts in place and winces, hands hovering over the skin of his hips and legs.

"Still tender?" Aziraphale guesses, heroically ignoring that he's sitting in the middle of a perfect coil of translucent ex-serpent. It feels gauche to call attention to it.

"Yeah, s'why I changed. No easy way to get the old skin off with this many limbs, but also no fun dragging around on your belly right after, either." He snaps, and the old skin shrinks up like an accordion into the far corner of the room. Of course, the friction means he also immediately starts shaking his fingers out and cursing.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and clambers to his feel. "You don't _have_ to snap, Crowley."

"Hey, I'm not fully recovered yet," Crowley protests, cradling his hand to his chest and pulling a melodramatic pout. "You still have to be nice to me."

Well, he's obviously feeling much better if he's willing to admit to even a little weakness, Aziraphale thinks with satisfaction.

"I thought 'nice' was a four-letter word," he counters, but he chivvies Crowley in the direction of the bedroom. "However, I do have some lovely body butters that are supposed to be especially soothing for sensitive skin, if you like."

Crowley huffs a laugh and carefully kneels up on the mink-like throw Aziraphale covered the bed with earlier.

"I suppose I can indulge you a little longer," Crowley agrees cheerfully as he lowers himself down, still a little stiff-limbed, and starfishes. He groans appreciatively at the decadently soft texture of the blanket and wriggles against it a bit.

Feeling his own spirits beginning to lift in correlation with Crowley's, Aziraphale grins and produces two different tubs of body butter.

"Do you want something with a fragrance, or no?" he asks.

Crowley turns his head and cracks an eye open to look at the jars. "No scent."

Aziraphale nods, replaces one of the jars, and moves to the end of the bed.

He lets the body butter warm in his hands for a moment before wrapping both hands around Crowley's left calf, just under the knee, and holding. When Crowley doesn't protest the soft touch, he tenderly slides his hands down to spread the butter evenly.

Crowley lets loose a string of unintelligible vowels that finally close around a pleased hiss. Aziraphale chuckles and scoops out the next fingerful of the body butter and moves to the other leg. He repeats the pattern for all four limbs, including hands and feet. For Crowley's back and buttocks, he gingerly straddles the demon's thighs, trying to avoid what would surely be an unavoidable pinch if their skin were to rub together at this stage.

The work is meditative. There's a certain satisfaction to painting every last inch of Crowley's skin with a soft, faint sheen, so that his new skin looks not just bright but supple. The symbolism of physically soothing a balm over his love's hurts, with everything that has come before and between them, isn't lost on him either. They've had a few stilted conversations on the subject since the world failed to end, but as ever they're better at showing each other how they feel than speaking it, so Aziraphale commits to these small acts of adoration with relish.

By the time Crowley has turned over and Aziraphale is spreading the last of the body butter over his chest, Crowley is doing his best impression of a bagful of pudding.

"There we are, all done," Aziraphale murmurs.

Before he can draw his hands completely away, Crowley grabs his wrists and flattens his palms to his chest.

"Hey, angel…" he says, expression serious and mouth twitching nervously. "Thanks. For all this. I don't think I have to tell you how many times I've ever had someone, erk, take care of me when this happens."

Aziraphale hums but holds back his catty instinct to say "just the once"; the moment is too soft for it, the words too rare and precious.

"And I wouldn't say it was fun, but it… it was nearly tolerable, which is…" Whatever nerves he'd mustered to start the little speech are clearly decamping for less soppy grounds, because Crowley abruptly cuts eye contact.

"Well, if I have any say, you'll never weather it alone again," Aziraphale says briskly.

Crowley nods, looking somewhere over Aziraphale's left shoulder, and blinks once, hard.

"Sounds like a plan," he rasps, and then, "You said you brought nibbles?"

.

.

.

They settle back on the squashy sofa. Aziraphale bullies the soft blanket into acquiring sleeves and a belt so Crowley can stay warm without having to brave clothing again so soon. Crowley doesn't make any pretense this time and sprawls out with his legs kicked over the arm and the back of the sofa, respectively, and his head resting on Aziraphale's cozy thighs.

He cradles a pint of dairy-free ice cream to his chest, occasionally shoving a spoonful in his face when he remembers. Nearby is a tray of both their favorites: angel food cake, deviled eggs, a variety of olives and rich cheeses, brioche, dark chocolate, et cetera. Crowley is ruefully impressed that Aziraphale has managed to pinpoint how many delicacies are actually things Crowley likes and that he didn't just order so the angel could steal from his plate. It makes his chest go tight if he thinks about it too long, though. His skin is still feeling tender enough that he can unsympathetically make that future Crowley's problem as well.

"Halo top? Really?" he drawls, waggling the pint of coconut-milk based, sea-salt caramel. "I don't need my ice cream judging me, angel."

Aziraphale smirks around a spoonful of his own more traditional dairy-based pint, although he's picked pistachio flavor for some unholy reason. "I thought it was clever," he says after a moment. "Look, the lid has a golden rim!"

Crowley rolls his eyes and puts on an episode of "Nailed It." He likes it for the pure schadenfreude; Aziraphale likes to cluck and tut over the virtues of doing something for the joy of it and putting one's best foot forward in all endeavors. Crowley still catches him smirking at the more hysterically awful attempts, though.

"You seem like you're feeling better," Aziraphale says once they've finished binging an entire season and the nibbles tray is thoroughly demolished.

"Yeah. Still a little tender, but I think I could manage clothes now, if I wanted—both the conjuring and the wearing," Crowley agrees easily.

"Hmm, should I get out of your hair for a bit?" Aziraphale asks. "You must be getting tired of me invading your space by now."

Crowley looks up and checks the angel's expression. The flicker of the eyelashes speak more to anxiety than boredom, so he doesn't think this is Aziraphale looking for an excuse to escape back to his bookshop. Still, if they're meant to be communicating a bit more openly now…

"I was thinking we could get started on _usual circumstances_ , since I'm finally able to appreciate all this properly. But do _you_ want some time to yourself? S'ok if you do. Could meet up again later."

Aziraphale lets out a long breath and smiles down at him. He places a tentative hand on Crowley's chest in the gap of his improvised robe. Crowley rests his own on top of it in an echo of the little moment they'd had on the bed earlier. Just so there's no ambiguity.

"I would like to stay," he admits quietly.

Crowley lets himself smile, wide and dopey. "Then stay."


End file.
